I wish words would fly by me like butterflies and land softly on my page. I wish words would tap me on the shoulder and whisper to me. I wish words would entice me and tease my hand to remember everything. I wish they would fall out of the sky onto my pages softly and with adroitness. I wish they would come out of the bathtub drain — the ugliest words — and crawl into the story in the ugliest part.
I wish words would parade by like Kim Jong-un’s soldiers, fiercely and in a straight line, and tell me what the hell to write. I wish words would lap up from the ocean and make the ink run on my page. I wish words would get tickled out of trees and become my pages.
I wish sentences would grow and expand from words and that they would be boundless and full of poor structure and punctuation. I wish my sentences would curl up gently in my lap and purr the secrets I need to tell. I wish my sentences would get poured out of my teacup and that they would be brought to me on the breeze.
I wish my sentences would snow on me and create large gaps where it would melt. I wish they would telepathically deliver themselves and that my hand would know what to write. I wish my sentences would slither out of my heart, past my shoulder and down my right arm onto the page. I wish my sentences would float into my consciousness and free the trapped canary.
I wish my paragraphs would come together like a Monet painting — perfectly organized with the garden, the lily pond, and the bridge. I wish my paragraphs would naturally sort the words and sentences into gorgeous prose. I wish the paragraphs would jump out at the reader — “Read me!” I wish my paragraphs would be powerful and readable, stopping the reader in her tracks.
I wish my paragraphs were written in good penmanship and typed up into a special font. I wish my paragraphs would pop out at me from the journals full of words, sentences and paragraphs.
I wish they were whole. I wish they were meaningful. I wish that they tell a story. I wish that they are not stuck in my body.